Uncle Pete's Shoulder

FICTION Uncle Pete's Shoulder Aaron Gwyn I WATCH THEM SHUFFLE THROUGH THE LEAVES. From the tree they look smaller. One has a red coat, a beard. The other has long hair and no beard. His coat is blue with a purple stripe. He's smoking a cigarette and has a stocking cap folded over his ears. From up in the tree his eyes look like two balls of black glass. I watch them come closer. They come closer, and I bring my hand up the holster. They walkpast, start to look small again. They don't look up. It's cold in the tree, colder than before. The sun is starting to go down, and the woods have a different color, all the branches golden red. I straddle the fork of the tree, wrap both legs around the trunk, wrap one arm around, press my forehead into the bark. I'm careful not to rub any off and let it fall on the leaves. I'm careful not to make any noise. The men walk for a while. They stop. They turn and start to walk back. I watch them come. I slip my hand up the holster, feel the cuts in the leather where it says my name. I tell myself if they keep coming, I'll take out the pistol and cock the hammer. I'll cock the hammer, close one eye, line the sight at the end of the barrel between the sights next to my thumb. Line all of that against their bodies, making sure the dot at the end of the barrel covers their faces. I'll do it all like I was supposed to, like Pa showed me. I watch them come closer.They don't look up. Only a couple hours ago, we were out back of Uncle Pete's, playing on his tractor, me, J.W. and Scoot. The grown-ups sent us outside because they were trying to have prayer meeting. Aunt Oma was sick with cancer—brain and lung. Every weekend Nan and Pa and all Nan's brothers and sisters drove down to Perser, Oklahoma, to pray for her. She had to have oxygen, and she couldn't get out of bed. She looked like two lines of bones piled under the sheets. After a while they sent us outside, but I didn't mind, even though there was still snow in the shadow of the trees. It gave me a chance to use the new pistol Pa bought me. He told me not to lose it like the others. It was heavyjust like the real one he kept on the dash whenhe was driving, or stuck down behind his belt when he was checking his wells. It fit the 61 holster he got me perfectly. The holster was dark and thick. It had straps that tied around my knee so it wouldn't flap up and down when I ran, and ithad myname, Jonathan, cut into the middle ofit. J.W. liked itwhen he saw it. He had his granddad go out and buy him one, but his was brown instead of black. And it didn't have J.W. on it anywhere. We were playing outlaws in the woods by Uncle Pete's tractor— me and J.W. and Scoot, whose dad was sheriff. I'd never met Scoot before, but he was all right. He was ten, too, and short like me. He had freckles and a lot of red hair, but he didn't have a lip on him like most kids with red hair. He called me Jon like J.W. did. And he liked my holster. I showed him how it tied on my leg. He didn't even ask to wear it. We were up on the tractor, which we decided was our stagecoach. I was on one fender. Scootwas on the other. J.W. was the stagecoach driver. J.W. asked if they were gaining on us. My outlaw name was Mitch, so that's what he was calling me. "Mitch," he asked, "they gaining?" I told him we were getting most of them, but they were still coming. Scoot...